


This Is How You Dance

by rebooting



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: F/M, mentions of child abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 00:36:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebooting/pseuds/rebooting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the beach, Raven spends some unexpected time with Azazel and begins to understand why the other mutant is the way he is, and the ways in which they're not so different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is How You Dance

Once upon a time, Raven believed that she would never again have to feel lost or alone. She'd believed that with the strength of a child, and then, later, with the strength of a girl whose brother could do _anything_. At least, she'd thought he could do anything. Even when he'd irritated her with his superiority - and oh, Charles could be superior when he wanted to be, was certainly not above flaunting his intellect if it suited him - she'd still believed in him.

And then Shaw had happened, and Darwin had died, Angel had made her decision, Hank had taken the first steps that would eventually lead him to living the life Raven had had, and the world had come crashing down.

She still believes in Charles, but she doesn't believe in his mission anymore, his desperate need to be accepted. She understands it - his mother's cold distance, his step-father's dislike, the difficulty in being so much more intelligent than most of his classmates _and_ of always knowing, on a surface level at least, what the people he speaks to really think, they all add up to a bundle of conflicts and neuroses and complexes that Charles is never honest about with _anyone_ \- but she can't live like that anymore, hiding herself to make herself more palatable to humans.

But with the Brotherhood, she still feels alone, because she doesn't share _their_ ideology either, not completely. Emma and Erik see humans as the enemy, all humans. Janos is quiet around all of them, watching, gauging the temperature of the waters before he fully commits. Raven can understand that. Angel is awkward around her, but Raven knows she agrees with Emma and Erik more than she doesn't. Azazel . . . it's impossible to know what Azazel is thinking. She catches him watching her sometimes, but it seems harmless; he doesn't leer the way some of the agents had, or make her feel uncomfortable. He just watches.

One afternoon he approaches her while she's training. Oddly, he looks a little apprehensive. It's not an expression she's used to seeing on him, and it puzzles her. She sets down the weights and waits for him to speak, impatient. He hasn't said more than two words at once to her since Erik had brought them together, and now he looks as though he expects to be slapped.

"I have never met another like us, before you and Angel," he says eventually, his words a little uncertain. He's choosing them carefully, she realises, whether because he doesn't want to offend her or because he's not entirely comfortable with English. "Someone with . . . physical mutation. I - may I?"

It takes her a moment to realise what he wants, as he stands there with a hand held out, and then she nods, setting her hand in his so he can explore the texture of her skin with his fingertips, oddly delicate. He keeps his exploration to her hand and forearm, carefully and gently running his fingertips over the edges of the textured parts of her fingers, peering at the patterns, and then releases her hand, giving her a tentative smile and -

She forces herself not to flinch as his tail swings around, remembering how close he'd come to blinding Hank with it, and then blinks as it stills, hovering at waist-height between them. He's trying to return the favour, she realises. Trying to let her examine another physical mutant the way she'd let him examine her.

She's not sure what she expected, but when she touches his tail, it feels almost oddly strong beneath her hands. It's all muscle laid over bone, not a bit of excess flesh, and she can feel those muscles move as his tail twitches when she runs her fingers over the skin, like it's ticklish. He lets out a little huff of breath that sounds a bit like laughter, and she can't keep back her own chuckle, releasing his tail and watching it swish back behind him.

"Thank you," he says quietly, his accent thick and clean, a reminder of the menace they'd been bombarded with by the government. _The Russians are our enemies. The Soviets are our enemies._ And yet, when it came to it, America sided with their enemies rather than the people who saved them, just because those people look strange and can do things most people can't.

Perhaps she _can_ understand Erik's stance, at least a little.

"I have been wondering," Azazel said, settling his hands behind his back in a stance that looks too military for Raven's comfort, "If you would like to see your brother."

How can he even _ask_ that? Of _course_ she wants to see him; the beach was barely a month ago, and she misses Charles fiercely. She doesn't even know if he's still _alive_. There had been no blood on the bullet Erik had pulled from his back, but that's not reassuring when she thinks about how he'd screamed. She still feels guilty for leaving him, even when she knows that leaving was the best thing for both of them to do. They'd grown too different to be able to slip back into their old sibling relationship. If she'd stayed on the beach, she wouldn't have been able to bring herself to leave afterward, and she knows that the resentment in her heart would have festered until there was no saving their friendship.

Unable to speak through the lump in her throat, she nods, and Azazel holds his hand out to her. She takes it, and there's the still-strange squeezing sensation as he teleports them.

They arrive in a small courtyard, walled on three sides and looking into a hospital room on the fourth. Azazel checks, and when he nods to Raven, letting her know that it's safe to go into the room, she rushes over to the door, fumbling with the handle before she manages to slide it open and go inside.

It's a private room, stark white, the tiles cold against her bare feet. Not as cold as she feels, looking at Charles in the bed. There are no beeping machines, no IV, nothing to indicate what sort of shape he's in - except for the wheelchair by the bed. She stares at that wheelchair for long moments, only becoming aware of the rest of the room when she hears Charles's voice, soft and disbelieving.

"Raven?"

He's holding his hand out to her, a disconcerting echo of Azazel, who is still out in the balcony, idly examining a flower bush; a further disconcerting echo of Erik, back on the beach. She goes over to the bed, almost unconsciously starting to shift into the blonde form he knows best, but Charles shakes his head and pats the bed beside him, silently inviting her to sit there instead of in a chair beside the bed.

"No, Raven," he says, still softly. "You don't need to hide. I'll know before anyone arrives. I . . ." He swallows, and pain spasms across his face, hidden as quickly as he hides most things. "I want you to be comfortable."

She sits beside him on the bed, wrapping her arm around his shoulders and helping him to move so she can hold him against her, the way he used to hold her when she was tired, when he'd read to her. A tradition started a long time ago, and one that she misses with a pain that's almost tangible.

"Azazel," she calls softly. He appears at the door, giving Charles a nod that carries a familiarity that indicates they've been talking - and _that_ isn't something Erik and Emma know about, Raven is certain - and looks at her, waiting for her to speak. She swallows thickly, and says, "There's a book in the top drawer of the bureau in my room. _Peter Pan_. Would . . . would you get it for me, please?"

Azazel looks at her for a long moment, and perhaps he can see the plea in her eyes, because he nods and says, "I will be as quick as I can," before disappearing in a swirl of red not-quite-smoke.

"He knew how to find you," she says softly, looking down at Charles. He looks so much smaller now, so fragile. She knows it's mostly in her mind, the knowledge that he's injured making him seem so breakable, but she can't help holding him closer, fiercely protective.

"He came back, after he took the rest of you off the beach," Charles says, his voice as quiet as hers. It feels as though speaking any louder would shatter the moment, bring the world rushing back in on them, and Raven just wants to be with her brother for a while. For all their differences, for all their arguments in the past months, he's still her _brother_ , the first person in the world who looked at her and didn't see a monster. He continues, "I didn't imagine we needed to fear an attack from any of you, and regardless, you and Erik both know how to get to the mansion, so I didn't see any harm in it. He brought Moira and I here, and took Hank, Alex, and Sean back to the mansion." He smiles a little, looking like his old self for a moment. "He's been checking in. It's rather odd, to be honest, but . . . rather touching, I suppose."

Raven manages a smile, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of Charles's head, and whispers, "I'm glad."

They're carefully _not_ talking about specifics. Raven knows how bad it is from the wheelchair by the bed, from the way Charles isn't complaining. He's a dreadful patient, but she always knows he's really sick or hurt when he _doesn't_ whine. Growing up, she'd rolled her eyes and bullied him through colds and twisted ankles, but babied him when he got too ill to complain about his head aching. Charles is willing to vocalise his pain only as long as it's something people can be amused at, rather than worried.

There's a soft rush of displaced air as Azazel reappears, holding the dog-eared book that Raven and Charles have both read at least a dozen times. He's handling it gently, like it's some precious thing, and maybe it is. Raven takes it from him, giving him a grateful smile.

He hesitates, looking torn. Raven glances at Charles, who seems perfectly comfortable with Azazel, and says, "You can stay, if you want to. It's . . . it's an old tradition. We should share it."

After a moment, he settles into one of the chairs, conveniently out of sight of the door, just in case. Raven makes herself comfortable on the bed, Charles's shoulder warm against her chest, and opens the book to the first page. Clearing her throat, she begins to read.

She's always been better at reading stories than Charles. She can do the voices.

 

 

Afterwards, when Charles has fallen asleep with promises that Raven – and by extension, Azazel – will visit again, they leave the hospital. Raven's guilt has lessened; Charles is coping. He's not _all right_ , and won't be for a long time, but he's dealing with his injury as well as she could have expected, and he'll have the boys to help him. Hank is probably redesigning the mansion already, to accommodate for the wheelchair. She still wishes there'd been a way for them all to stay together, but it's getting easier to not blame herself.

When they arrive back at the Brotherhood's current lair – god, they have a _lair_ , she wonders if any of the others feel cliché – Erik is there, and Raven freezes for a moment. He's particular about knowing where everyone is, just in case. She knows he looks at them all and sees the people he saw taken away years ago, sometimes, and usually she acquiesces to his requests, but tonight – Azazel has a reason for not telling Emma and Erik that he's been visiting Charles, and Raven doesn't really want to tell them either. She still doesn't trust Emma with her brother, and she doesn't want Erik there either. Not while Charles is healing. Maybe they can reconcile some day, but she doesn't think it's likely to be now. She knows her brother too well, knows that behind the quiet mask he'd been wearing today, there's more anger and hurt than anyone but her can imagine. Charles isn't ready to see Erik.

"Where were you?" Erik asks, his voice hard and tight with mingled anger and fear. And before Raven can stop herself, she's talking.

"Azazel took me on a date."

Azazel blinks at her, and adds, "Yes. We went dancing."

Erik's expression is enough to break the tension; Raven can't help but giggle at the flummoxed look on his face as he looks from her to Azazel and back, eventually asking, ". . . dancing?"

"Yes," Azazel says, clearly warming up to the idea. "We went dancing and bought ice cream, and Raven explained cotton candy."

"You went dancing," Erik repeats, as though he can't quite believe what he's hearing. " _Where_ did you go dancing?"

"A carnival," Raven says quickly. "There were lots of people in costume, Erik, it was fine. We just wanted to . . . get out for a bit. I'm sorry we didn't tell you first."

Erik shakes his head, muttering something in German that Raven's pretty sure isn't complimentary, but he doesn't push for any more details. He probably doesn't want to think about other details, she reflects, not about her and Azazel on a date. She's still not sure why she threw out that excuse, but at least it's one he's not likely to think about too much.

When Erik leaves, Azazel glances at Raven and says, his tone and expression completely deadpan, "I am going to hum the spin every time he enters the room."

For a moment, Raven just stares at him, and then it clicks, and she laughs. "The twist. It's called the twist, not the spin."

"Ah."

Azazel rubs the back of his neck, looking awkward, and Raven immediately feels bad for laughing. Impulsively, she holds out her hand to him and says, "We can go practice."

He blinks at her, confused, and she smiles. "Come on. If we've been dancing, we should have _some_ skills to show for it, wouldn't you say?"

He still looks confused, but he lets her take his hand and drag him to the room that she, Janos, and Angel figured used to be a workout room, back when this place was inhabited. She wonders, occasionally, where its previous inhabitants were, and decides not to think about it too much. She can tell herself that Emma just "stole" it from someone and made them forget they ever owned it, and hope that it was as relatively innocent as that; for all she doesn't think she should have to fit in with humans, she doesn't want to just kill them because it's _convenient_. That feels too much like the mentality of squishing a bug because it's in the way. That feels too much like what Shaw did to Darwin.

There's a radio by the wall, and Raven goes over to it, finding a decent station and turning the sound up enough that they'll be able to hear the music while they dance. When she turns back to Azazel, he's watching her with his head tilted a little, watching with an appreciation that's different to the way any other person has looked at her.

"This," Raven says, giving him another smile, "is how you dance."

It's fast music at first, the beat heavy and energetic, a workout in and of itself, and she's thankful that it's too fast for her to have enough breath to laugh. She doesn't want to hurt Azazel's feelings, but he looks ridiculously lost at first, watching her move and attempting to mimic her gyrations. His tail adds an extra dimension to what can only really be called flailing. He catches on eventually, looking as though he can't quite believe he's doing something so absurd, just in time for the music to change pace, slow enough now that they can catch their breath enough to talk.

"Why did you work with Shaw?"

The question is out before Raven can censor herself, and she curses under her breath, waiting for Azazel to leave. He doesn't, though; he halts, looking thoughtful, and Raven goes over to the radio to turn it off, suddenly _wanting_ to hear what he has to say, more than she's wanted to hear anything for a long time. She wants very much to understand how people like Emma, Janos, and Azazel could work with a man like Shaw.

"It was hard for you, before you met Charles," Azazel says, obviously choosing his words carefully. "You did not instinctively know how to . . . blur?"

"Blend," Raven says almost automatically, sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall, looking up at Azazel. This sounds like it's going to be a long story.

He sighs, clearly frustrated with himself, and joins her on the floor. He doesn't sit by the wall, though; he settles into a cross-legged position a few feet away from her, curling his tail around the curve of his bent leg like a cat.

"But you _could_ , even when you felt you should not have to," Azazel continues. "A compromise you should not have had to make, but one that helped keep you safe. I could not do such a thing, and so I had never known humans to do anything but fear me." His lips twist in a smile that's completely lacking in mirth. "Imagine giving birth and looking down to see a child with red skin and a tail. My parents did not believe in murder, but they could not bring themselves to care for me. My brother raised me. He was blind; he could not see the monster they forced on him."

Raven's stomach twists. How many times had she called herself a monster, growing up? How many times had she slipped up during adolescence, forcing Charles to use his power to fix everything, and spent hours crying over her lack of control, calling herself weak, stupid, useless?

"My parents tried to kill me," she whispers. Not to prove to him how much worse she had it; it just feels right, paying his honesty with some of her own.

"Mine wanted to," Azazel says. "I heard them talking about it often. About whether it was a sin to destroy something that so clearly came from the devil. But my mother was convinced that I was a test of their faith, and she decided that the proper response would be to ensure that the evil was beaten out of me."

Raven flinches, remembering harsh words, harsher fists. Her first shift had been instinctive, taking a bigger form to be able to defend herself better, and that had been the final straw to parents who had resented and feared their child since she was born. She'd learned quickly out of necessity; she imagines the same must be true of Azazel. She can imagine, all too clearly, a little boy with red skin and a pointed tail, hurt to the point of needing to escape badly enough that his mutation triggers. Her first shift was terrifying; she can't imagine what a first teleportation must have been like.

"My brother saw to it I learned to read and write, although of course he could only teach me in Braille," Azazel says, his voice quiet and calm, no hint of distress in him at all save for the flicking of the end of his tail. Raven doesn't like comparing him to an animal, but the way his tail moves with his emotions reminds her of the cat she had – well, the cat that lived with her – when she was very young, before she met Charles. Azazel continues, "Our parents didn't speak to me often. They would come downstairs once a week. Things . . . changed, when I was a teenager."

Raven swallows, not sure she wants to know _how_ things changed, but unable to keep from asking softly, "What happened?"

Azazel's smile is bittersweet. "I was a fifteen-year-old boy; I began to notice girls. I had always watched people through the curtains, but it didn't seem like enough, as I got older. One day I was not careful enough; one of them saw me. Her parents were with her. My parents managed to convince their neighbours that I was not theirs, but I was still a demon who would harm their daughters. They tried to stone me."

Raven feels like she's about to be sick. It obviously shows on her face, because Azazel gives her an apologetic smile, a half-shrug, and says quietly, "So my first experiences of humans were not pleasant ones. Things . . . did not improve. My teleportation triggered when the first stones hit, but there were several years between that and meeting Sebastian for the first time. Some people I met were more understanding, but for the most part, I was either a monster to be feared or a curio that should be in a circus."

"I'm sorry," Raven whispers. It doesn't seem fair, all of a sudden, that she's able to hide.

"Emma and Erik have made me aware of Sebastian's real plans," Azazel says, changing the subject. "When he first recruited me, I did not speak English. I still have trouble with it now, and the science he spoke of – it is not something I understand." He's unapologetic about his lack of scientific aptitude, but she can't blame him for that; he's got plenty of other things he's good at. "I was very angry when I first met him, you must understand. My experience of humans had been little but violence, and I was eager to return that violence on them. I had honed my abilities, both mundane and fantastic, until I was a living weapon; it felt like the only way to be certain I would survive."

"You enjoy it," Raven says softly. There's no judgement in her voice. She doesn't understand how he can enjoy killing, but she thinks she can understand _why_. Every human killed is one less human to hurt them, lock them up, kill them.

"I'm good at it," Azazel says, shrugging. "There is a simplicity in fighting someone who wants you dead. Everything else fades away until there's only the movement, the need to survive. Have I always killed people who deserved it? I imagine not. I have done a great many things I'm not proud of, Raven, because the world does not allow people like me to take the higher ground unless we wish to die on it."

"People like us." He looks surprised, and she manages a bit of a smile. "People like us. You're not alone anymore. With the six of us, maybe we can find a compromise between dying on the high ground and dying inside because of our actions."

Azazel is silent for a moment, and then whispers, "You are a very surprising woman, Raven. You are . . . not what I expected."

"Neither are you," she admits. "You scared the hell out of me at the CIA facility. I never thought I'd be sitting down and talking to you."

Azazel sighs. "The CIA facility. I was not entirely happy with that, you understand. There were easier ways we could have talked to you. But Sebastian did like to make his points, and he _did_ have a point that bringing the CIA low would mean less opposition for us. Still, it is not the way I would have done things. I would have killed the men in charge, not the guards."

Raven swallows. She'd _liked_ Oliver. The other agents hadn't been very nice, but he'd been decent, fascinated by their mutations no matter what they were, and had treated them like people, like exceptional people. Reconciling his death – the deaths of all of them – with Azazel, especially now that she can picture him as a frightened, hurt child, the way she'd been when she found Charles – is difficult. But can she really say she wouldn't have turned out the same way, if someone like Shaw had found her instead of someone like Charles?

He smiles again, this time a little warmer, a little less guarded, and says quietly, "There is much we have to come to terms with, all of us. Until then . . . shall we dance again?"

She can tell he's waiting for her to say no. She doesn't give him what he's waiting for, though; instead, she smiles and gets to her feet, holding her hand out in an echo of Erik, Charles, Azazel himself. The one to offer now, instead of the one being beckoned.

"Let's dance."

There's a lot to think about, and there's a lot of Azazel that makes her uncomfortable, but she's not _scared_ of him, and she can recognise the same need for acceptance in him that she can see in herself. She can give him that, for now at least.

And for now, what was it Peter Pan said? It will be a very big adventure.


End file.
